


The Limit of Love

by artemisgrace



Series: Hannibal Rambling [4]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Affection, Conversations, Established Relationship, F/F, Love, POV Alana Bloom, Relationship Discussions, Relationship Negotiation, alana and margot discuss their future, and how the past shapes it, fear of inadequacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 03:05:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19432639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artemisgrace/pseuds/artemisgrace
Summary: Alana worries about the devastating nature of being madly in love . . . and worries that less than that might be a disappointment. It's the fear of at once too much and too little . . . but is a love less real for remaining within the bounds of reason?





	The Limit of Love

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written Alana before, or indeed Margot (in the canon context), so I'm not super confident about this one, but I hope you enjoy it all the same :)

The curtains are the deep red of wine, accents of gold around the room gleam, but it all reflects coldly in the daylight that streams in through the gap in the heavy fabric, a ray of harsh reality that strikes at the very heart of the life they’ve been building together inside this house. Warmth pales. Neither of them move to close the drapes, neither move to shield themselves from the spear of light. Why should they? It’s a good reminder of that which awaits outside, that from which they cannot truly protect themselves. Reality cuts cruel, and it cares not.

There is no point to closing the curtain, so they don’t. Instead they bask in the chilled, stark light, absorbing it into themselves, for the light is less frightening when carried within. One’s gauge for sharpness changes when one is full of knives. 

But the blades don’t frighten thought away, as Alana is all too aware, gazing through the gap in the curtain to look over the landscaped grounds of the estate, smoothing a hand over her belly and hoping that perhaps a child will warm this room the way herself and Margot don’t. That innocence might settle like a fog over their home, driving out the bleak memory of cold and waking the warmth that has so long slept. Waking the two of them from their stupor. 

It’s not an emptiness, not in the least, but a cup that overflows, blinded by too much light, deafened by the noise. They met and fell in love in that cold and clamor. Their battle is over for now, ambition satisfied, but peacetime itself carries a fear of its own . . . or perhaps it is a knowledge more than a fear, the knowledge that it’s unlikely to last.

Margot is beautiful in this light, enchanting in the way that marble enchants, beauty betraying the strength of stone. A grace that withstands the ravages of weather, war, and time . . . She makes of fool of those who’ve tried to subdue her simply by sitting there, poised, back straight, eyes flicking over printed words on a page, and it sparks something in Alana’s chest. An ember.

The warmth hasn’t died, the fire simply needs rekindling. Given time, it will burn freely again, though never quite the same as before. Wood once burnt is charcoal and ash, it can never again be a tree. They’ll never be the same, neither of them . . .

As if sensing the weight of Alana’s gaze, Margot looks up from her book, eyes bright and clear, shining the green-blue of the shifting tide, and an eyebrow quirking.

“You’re staring,” she remarks, and though her eyes tend towards the cool, her smile is warm and full of fondness.

“Not an infrequent occurrence,” Alana responds with a smile of her own.

“No, but still you have me wondering.”

“Just thinking . . . about you, about us . . . about our baby.”

“Worrying?” Margot asks with a knowing tilt of her head.

“A bit,” Alana admits, smiling both as instinct and in pleasure at being understood the way that Margot understands her.

It’s a love, she thinks, that lives not because they choose to ignore the worst in each other, but because their individual worsts are aligned. They’d killed together, for themselves and for each other, something that wouldn’t likely have happened alone, certainly not with such a positive outcome . . . Their worsts aligned, combined, and flourished for exactly as long as was necessary before retreating again to sleep beneath the surface, not gone, but not needed, not for now. 

They are each other’s worst, and each other’s best . . . a thing that would otherwise be a comfort is for Alana a frightening thought, for the connection it brings to mind. They’ve known others like that. They know how that goes.

Hannibal would be thrilled to know he’s on her mind even now . . . She can’t help but grimace for a brief moment before coming back to herself.

“I love you, you know,” she tells Margot,and it’s not something she hasn’t said before, but it’s the preface to something previously unmentioned.

“Of course,” Margot answers, brows furrowing at the familiar words and unfamiliar tone.

“I am deeply in love with you,” Alana goes on, “but not madly.”

Margot’s face only shows greater confusion, and Alana continues.

“I love you in the best way that I can: within reason,” she explains, “It’s a strange thought to have, an odd epiphany, but . . . There are many things that I would do for you, many things that I would sacrifice, but that sort of love, love to the point of insanity . . . I would never wish to inflict that upon you. Nor our child.”

“Do you love like you do because that’s not your way, or because you choose not to?” The confused tilt to Margot’s head straightens out as the meaning becomes somewhat illuminated.

“I’m not sure,” Alana chuckles, a lost sort of sound, “I’ve seen enough to know that too much love can be worse than none at all. I can’t bear the thought . . .”

“Of being like them?”

“In even the smallest way.”

“They’ve touched us,” Margot sighs, leaning forward, leaning closer, “We’ll always carry that mark, like a brand . . . like the brand my brother burned into Hannibal’s back, but left in our heads. I expect we’ll always worry about just how deeply that brand goes . . .”

“Does it disappoint you?” Alana asks, voice soft and thin like tissue paper.

“The limit of love?” Margot reaches out a hand, seeking Alana’s own, and pausing a moment before speaking again, “There are sometimes couples who are so wrapped up, so hopelessly tangled in each other, that any children they may have simply fall to the wayside. Either forgotten or shredded in the crossfire. Collateral damage, I think is the term.”

“Yes . . .” Alana reaches her own hand forward to meet Margot’s, though her movement is slow, almost hesitant.

“I don’t want a love like that,” Margot states firmly, pretty, pale eyes hard, the way marble is hard, “Enough love is enough, no more is needed, and I don’t want more . . . Our child will not be an Abigail.”

Hands clasp tight, holding fast: a lifeline, or an oath . . . a love no less real for its limits.

**Author's Note:**

> If you fancy the sound of more Hannibal stuff from me, I've got a few on my page, including a post-WWI AU that's shaping up to be a long one. Check 'em out if you feel inclined :)


End file.
